Mysterious Country 1: Mist-Shrouded Champa Chapter 1: The Black Room

Mysterious Country 1: Mist-Shrouded Champa Chapter 1: The Black Room

As Sima Hui often said: “Bad luck is a kind of fortune that never misses.” At the age of fifteen, both of Sima Hui’s parents were labeled rightists. They died one after another in study camps from illness, passing away so suddenly they did not even have a chance to say goodbye. No one told Sima Hui where to go to school or where to eat; no one cared whether he lived or died. By the time he had sold everything in the house that could be sold, left with nothing at all, he realized that from then on he could only rely on himself. To survive, he had no choice but to go to the “Black House” a place he could never have dreamed of to make a living. The “Black House” was not actually a black-colored building, but the nickname of a small town on the far outskirts. Sandwiched between two barren hills, the land was poor, the climate harsh, and the place extremely remote. During the war, it had been bombed by planes, followed by a great fire. Houses collapsed, ruins lay everywhere, and thick smoke blackened the remaining walls hence the locals called it the Black House. Even during the ten-year turmoil, the area was never rebuilt, and for years no formal residents returned to live there. But because a railway ran through the Black House ruins, with freight trains passing daily, many people who lived off the railway flocked here. Over time, it gradually became a gathering place for the bottom of society.

Naturally, all sorts of people mixed here: homeless orphans, wandering scavengers, peasants who fled the countryside for the city, those who picked coal cinders along the tracks, dock laborers hauling heavy sacks, sweet potato vendors, and even educated youth who secretly fled the hardship of rural re-education in remote areas. They formed gangs in the Black House, mostly scraping by on digging tunnels and doing small deals on the black market, with no proper jobs. Of course, there were also thieves who broke locks and robbed trains, as well as hooligans who cheated and extorted money. Nearly everyone haunting the Black House was excluded from mainstream society. They did all the things the government forbade, yet the fierce political struggles raging outside never reached here not even big-character posters were pasted here. Whenever outsiders came to evict or search them, the Black House gangs scattered at once, only to regroup once the heat died down. Authorities were helpless against them, turning a blind eye. After all, as long as no major trouble broke out, who would bother with these “social scum” cast aside on the city’s edge? Sima Hui’s gang consisted of teenagers around fourteen or fifteen, boys and girls. Most were children of rightists whose families had been persecuted, too young to join the army or be sent to the countryside. They wandered the streets with no jobs, no school, and no relatives to turn to truly “unloved by grandma, unwanted by uncle, even kicked by mother-in-law, and despised by dogs.” Though some of these teenagers received meager living allowances, the money was far from enough to survive on. Driven by instinct, they formed a gang to face the world. Taking the popular slogan “Mao Zedong Thought sweeps the land like spring breeze,” they named themselves the Spring breeze Combat Regiment, swearing solemnly in front of Chairman Mao’s portrait: “We will unite, share weal and woe, and carry out the revolution together.” In truth, it was just an excuse to openly cause trouble, making life miserable for the locals.

None of the revolutionary masses in the city had a good word for them. The Spring breeze Combat Regiment resembled the “child gangs” that once plagued London, Britain’s “Fog City.” Members were young and posed a certain threat to society. Eventually, unable to stay in the city any longer, the gang flocked to the Black House. They fought several brawls with local hooligans, taking heavy losses, but as the saying goes, “no fight, no friendship.” Miraculously, the two sides reached an understanding. After repeated negotiations, they divided their territories, and the chaotic situation stabilized temporarily. In the Spring breeze Combat Regiment, Sima Hui’s closest friend was Luo Dahai a brave, spirited boy. His father, Luo Wanshan, was a military officer transferred to work in a local court. Later, during the “smash the public security, procuratorial and judicial organs” movement, Luo Wanshan was imprisoned in a cattle pen. Left adrift, Luo Dahai took to wandering, chatting aimlessly with Sima Hui until finally getting to the point. This old man, Zhao the Treasure-Hunter, claimed he had traveled the jianghu in his early years, well-versed in human nature, with special connections in the city able to pull strings and get all sorts of rare goods on the black market. From their conversation, he saw that despite his youth, Sima Hui understood old rules, clearly from an old family a rare find. As the saying goes: “Bald heads enter temples, hat-wearers join their ranks.” When insiders meet insiders, it’s like coming home. So he offered to let Sima Hui and Luo Dahai profit from his connections.

As he spoke, Zhao the Treasure-Hunter pulled three packs of premium cigarettes out of his tattered sack like a magician, grinning as he laid them on the ground. Luo Dahai came from a well-connected family and had seen the world. He recognized the cigarettes immediately reserved only for high-ranking cadres, unseen by ordinary people, hard to find even on the black market, no matter the price. Impressed by his generosity, Luo Dahai’s eyes lit up. He reached for the cigarettes, saying: “We’ve only just met, and you’re so generous. We’re truly honored. Which unit are you from? We’ll definitely write a commendation letter to thank you for your selfless support.” Zhao the Treasure-Hunter stopped his hand: “Wait. These didn’t come easy, but we’re fated to meet. Let’s be friends, help each other out. You two leaders would you let me trade these three packs of good cigarettes for… something in your hut?” Luo Dahai laughed: “Old Zhao, to be honest, we’re like ‘a weasel with its tail cut off not a single valuable hair left.’ If you don’t mind our junk, take whatever you like.” Sima Hui was surprised. Though he wanted the cigarettes, he kept his head, stopping Zhao: “Before we agree, tell us exactly what you want from the hut.” Impatient, Zhao the Treasure-Hunter rolled his eyes, pulling out a large packet of braised pig ears and four cans of beef from his sack, piling them on the ground: “I won’t know what I want until I look inside. But I’ll say this upfront all this food and cigarettes is enough for one item only.

I won’t ask for more.” Sima Hui saw he was determined, raising the stakes before even negotiating. As the saying goes: “Never rush a buyer, never rush a seller eagerness makes no deal.” Whatever he wanted must be precious, worth so many rare goods. Sima Hui could not agree lightly. He also remembered something: in the north, he’d heard tales of “southern treasure-hunters.” Treasures lay buried in places of good feng shui, protected by spirits. Disturbing them invited disaster; only ancient Qimen arts could retrieve them. Thus, it was never called “stealing” or “digging” treasure, but “holding for treasure.” Said to originate in Jiangxi, the art required training from infancy: babies were locked in dark cellars for a hundred days before being brought out, granting them “earth eyes” to spot any treasure. Whether true or not, outsiders could not say. Sima Hui found Zhao the Treasure-Hunter’s strange dress and behavior mysterious, matching the tales he’d heard clearly a master of the treasure-hunting art. But his hut was shabby, with broken furniture, no sign of a proper home. As Luo Dahai said, not even an intact teacup. Where would a treasure be? What did Zhao want? And how had he found it, arriving out of nowhere?